Swift from the guarded decks we rush'd along, And vainly sought repose, so vast our throng: Three hundred wretches here, denied all light, In crowded mansions pass the infernal night, Some for a bed their tatter'd vestments join, And some on chests, and some on floors recline;[30] Shut from the blessings of the evening air, Pensive we lay with mingled corpses there, Meagre and wan, and scorch'd with heat below, We loom'd like ghosts, ere death had made us so-- How could we else, where heat and hunger join'd Thus to debase the body and the mind, Where cruel thirst the parching throat invades, Dries up the man, and fits him for the shades. No waters laded from the bubbling spring To these dire ships the British monsters bring-- By planks and ponderous beams completely wall'd In vain for water, and in vain, I call'd-- No drop was granted to the midnight prayer, To Dives in these regions of despair!-- The loathsome cask a deadly dose contains, Its poison circling through the languid veins; "Here, generous Britain, generous, as you say, "To my parch'd tongue one cooling drop convey, "Hell has no mischief like a thirsty throat, "Nor one tormentor like your David Sproat."[A] Dull flew the hours, till, from the East display'd, Sweet morn dispells the horrors of the shade; On every side dire objects meet the sight, And pallid forms, and murders of the night, The dead were past their pain, the living groan, Nor dare to hope another morn their own; But what to them is morn's delightful ray, Sad and distressful as the close of day, O'er distant streams appears the dewy green, And leafy trees on mountain tops are seen, But they no groves nor grassy mountains tread, Mark'd for a longer journey to the dead. Black as the clouds that shade St. Kilda's shore, Wild as the winds that round her mountains roar, At every post some surly vagrant stands, Pick'd from the British or the Irish bands, Some slave from Hesse, some hangman's son at least Sold and transported, like his brother beast-- Some miscreant Tory, puff'd with upstart pride, Led on by hell to take the royal side; Dispensing death triumphantly they stand, Their musquets ready to obey command; Wounds are their sport, as ruin is their aim; On their dark souls compassion has no claim, And discord only can their spirits please: Such were our tyrants here, and such were these. Ingratitude! no curse like thee is found Throughout this jarring world's extended round, Their hearts with malice to our country swell Because in former days we us'd them well!-- This pierces deep, too deeply wounds the breast; We help'd them naked, friendless, and distrest, Receiv'd their vagrants with an open hand, Bestow'd them buildings, privilege, and land-- Behold the change!--when angry Britain rose, These thankless tribes became our fiercest foes, By them devoted, plunder'd, and accurst,